


a question of space, a matter of time

by humanities_angstiest



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, But they help each other, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, References to Depression, i don’t think this story is as bad as the tags make it seem, suicide is an oc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 06:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13758639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanities_angstiest/pseuds/humanities_angstiest
Summary: Lance moves forward slowly, trying not to further spook Keith Kogane. He keeps his voice steady, free of judgement but not concern, as he asks, “Are you going to jump?”





	a question of space, a matter of time

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my beta-readers, TriP9282 and haganenoheichou <3
> 
> To those who are curious, the title for this fic comes from the song 'Of Space and Time' by City & Colour.

Lance tips the dark blue thermos until it is almost vertical, hoping and failing to gain warmth from the last few drops of coffee. He really shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late at night. It can’t possibly be good for his health, but the habit is now tied together with this time and place. 

Every night for the past two months and three days, Lance has come to this park and sat his butt down on the grass beneath the same low-branched sycamore tree. That tree has dutifully kept most of the rain off his head during those few stormy nights that swept away the white carnations resting on the railing of the bridge above the memorial photo that became too water-damaged to last. The tree is one of many lining the narrow dirt path that cuts through the forest, continuing across the short wooden bridge and resuming through the forest on the other side. Eventually the trees thin and then stop at the border of a baseball field. Beyond that is a parking lot and playground.

When the fall weather descended upon the college town, the baseball field was abandoned by the summer leagues but not the occasional dog-owner tossing a Frisbee. Fewer children play at the playground after school, their parents not wanting them to stay out too long. Sometimes the forest path is used as a jogging route, but most people have reactivated their gym memberships for the progressively colder months. Lance hasn’t witnessed these changes take place; he only comes to the park late at night when people have few good reasons to be here.

Lance sits under his tree ten feet from the bridge until 12:04 am, drinking his coffee. Sometimes he sits there past 12:04 am if he still has coffee left.

He never leaves before 12:04 am if he finishes his coffee early.

Tonight is one such night. He wraps his military green jacket tighter across his body and waits for the alarm on his phone to go off, signaling that he can return home and chase after sleep. It’s always difficult to catch after downing a thermos of caffeine, but after a long day of classes and swim practice, he needs the caffeine to keep him awake till midnight.

At long last his phone vibrates aggressively in his hand, and Lance swipes his index finger across the screen to turn off the alarm. He shoves his thermos into the side pocket of his backpack and slowly rises to his feet, shaking off the tingles in his legs he got from sitting still for too long. He is about to step out from under the low-hanging branches of his tree when he hears the creaking of the wooden boards of the bridge and freezes. Peering through the branches, Lance sees a lone figure standing on the bridge, their shoulders slightly curled inwards, perhaps to brace against the occasional cool breeze.

Lance waits quietly beneath the cover of the trees, waiting to see what the figure will do. Minutes pass and the person — Lance can’t tell what gender they are because their hair reaches their shoulders, but their shoulders are broad. Not that a girl can’t have broad shoulders or a dude can’t have long hair and anyway they could be outside the binary — Lance ropes his mind back to the matter at hand. According to his phone, eleven minutes have passed, and the person is still standing alone on this wooden bridge, their hands tightly gripping the railing as if to prevent themself from impulsively vaulting over it.

When the phone in Lance’s hand informs him that thirteen minutes have gone by since this person’s arrival, they finally move. Lance watches as the person bends down, searches in the dark for something, then stands at the edge of the bridge once they’ve found it, dropping what Lance assumes to be a rock before leaning forward to watch it fall. Together they listen to hear how long it takes the rock to reach the bottom, waiting for its telltale clattering against the larger rocks rising from the shallow stream below like sharp teeth waiting to snatch up anyone — anything — that lands on them. Lance notices his breathing has sped up so he focuses on slowing it down. Meanwhile, the person straightens up and their hands that were previously gripping the railing become suspiciously slack.

“Are you going to jump?” Lance steps out from under his tree and onto the forest path, watching the other person carefully as he slowly advances onto the tiny bridge. The person startles and turns to face Lance with their arms up like they’re ready for a fight.

Lance balks at the guy standing in front of him. Even in the midnight darkness with only the moonlight and the glow from Lance’s cell phone to see by, Lance knows who this is. Lips pressed firmly together to prevent any misconceptions that they are capable of producing a smile, high cheekbones as sharp as the violet eyes above them, and that insufferable hairstyle that he shouldn’t have and still manage to be the fastest swimmer on Voltron University’s Division I team and in the entire state. It used to irk Lance, who keeps his hair trimmed short but still is only fast enough to be in Division II. These days he couldn’t care less.

Lance moves forward slowly, trying not to further spook Keith Kogane. He keeps his voice steady, free of judgement but not concern, as he asks again, “Are you going to jump?”

Violet eyes dart to the railing then back to Lance. Keith’s posture straightens, his arms drop to his sides, and Lance sees a flicker of something pass through those eyes that are now pinned on him.

“Of course not. I was just taking a walk. Thought it was peaceful here so I stopped.”

Lance appraises the other boy. His excuse sounds reasonable enough, and now that he isn’t bent over the railing but standing tall and pinning Lance in place with a steady gaze, Lance wonders if he had imagined the slouch to the shoulders, the whiteness of hands gripped tight around the railing.

“My mistake.”

Lance holds his hands up in apology and shuffles casually across the narrow bridge, lightly brushing shoulders with his university’s star athlete. “Have a good night.”

Lance has already passed the guy and stepped off the other end of the bridge when he hears a quiet, “Yeah. Uh, you too.”

It isn’t too odd, taking a midnight walk and stopping to enjoy the silence, Lance assures himself as he walks home. The momentary fear he saw in those violet eyes could easily be a response to his sudden appearance than the second-guessing of a decision that could never be undone.

Lance unlocks his apartment door, sets his thermos in the sink to clean tomorrow morning, and gets himself ready for bed. Hunk left his pill and a glass of water on his nightstand. He swallows both then gets into bed, ready to descend into the best kind of sleep.

Dreamless.

  
***

  
Sunlight filtering through his half-shut shades prods at his eyelids, forcing Lance awake before his alarm. He drags his tired and unwilling body out from under the protective warmth of his blankets and into the bathroom to shower for the day. A plate of scrambled eggs and jellied toast awaits him on the kitchen table, courtesy of his roommate and best friend Hunk.

“How was your night?” Hunk asks, gently as always. After the twenty-seventh straight night of Lance keeping watch like the most attractive troll to ever guard a bridge, Hunk stopped arguing with him about his health. When Hunk realized there would be no changing Lance’s mind, he started leaving umbrellas and heavy jackets by the door for the rainy and cold nights, as well as a late-night snack and full thermos of coffee, black and bitter, as Lance melodramatically claims his soul has become.

Lance bites his toast and mulls over his answer to Hunk’s question. There is nothing to tell, not really, but an inkling feeling, a small uncertainty in his chest, leads him to say, “I saw Keith Kogane at the bridge last night.”

“What?” Hunk fumbles with the plate he is washing, catching it before it drops and setting it in the drying rack. “Really?” Hunk is familiar with the name; as a sports journalist for their university’s newspaper, he has had to write multiple articles about the guy for each time he breaks a new record.

“He wasn’t doing anything, just taking a walk,” Lance adds, almost sounding defensive about Keith’s presence at the bridge last night.

“Back home I used to take my dog on walks at night because I liked the quiet. Keith seems like the type to like solitude as well.” Hunk sets another dish in the drying rack. “You remember me telling you how adverse he was to being interviewed after breaking the hundred yard freestyle record? He didn’t want the attention. Last night he probably just wanted somewhere to be alone for a bit.”

“Yeah.” That’s a more logical assumption than the one Lance immediately jumped to.

“Are you ready for that quiz you have in Iverson’s class today?”

Lance latches onto Hunk’s topic change and bemoans the minimal studying he did. He spends the five-minute walk from their apartment to campus reading the chapter he will be quizzed on and is almost run over by a biker outside the lecture hall for his last-minute efforts.

Lance manages to answer three of the five questions on the quiz with moderate confidence but writes himself in circles trying to answer the last two questions. Well, a three out of five isn’t too shabby. D’s get degrees, right?

Two more classes, two and a half more hours, then Lance is done with academics for the day. Pidge waits for him as she usually does on the bench outside of Warner Hall and together they walk to the gymnasium, Pidge taking three quick, small steps for every one of Lance’s ambling ones.

He nods along as she explains her experiments in the lab, something about electrospinning what-have-you. She’s gotten good over the past few months at filling the silences he leaves.

They separate at the locker rooms, Lance going to change into his swimsuit and Pidge continuing onwards to the pool to stand beside Coach Coran and fulfill her managerial duties.

Pidge’s brother Matt enters the locker room and together they gripe about Iverson as they change. Unlike Lance, Matt actually studied for today’s quiz and still struggled to answer all five questions. If that class lowers his GPA… well, let’s just say a mysteriously blank hard drive will be the least of the professor’s problems.

While Matt details his revenge, Lance wonders which of the Holt siblings is more terrifying. He’s leaning towards Matt, whose kind and easygoing nature easily lulls people into a false sense of safety, whereas Pidge’s sarcasm and sassiness at least warn people to be on guard.

They are the last to arrive at practice and join the semicircle of their teammates standing around Coach Coran as he enthusiastically points at the chalkboard listing today’s workout.

Matt hops into the lane next to Lance, creating waves that slap against Lance’s chest. He adjusts his green goggles over his eyes and Lance lowers his blue ones, then they begin their warm-up laps. Today, Coran is timing them to determine the line-up for next week’s meet against Luxia University.

“Hey,” Matt calls over the piercing sound of their coach’s whistle. Lance braces his feet against the wall and grips the edge of the pool, turning his head to acknowledge Matt once he is in position to start.

“Did you hear Kogane broke another record? 8:50:03 for the 1000 free. Endurance _and_ speed. Sheesh. What a monster, right?”

“Yeah,” Lance agrees halfheartedly. He read the Division I meet results against Galra College posted in the locker room, same as Matt.

Last semester, Lance would have responded with an unimpressed wave of his hand followed by a confident declaration that he could beat Kogane’s time, even though Lance swims the 200 free and 400 free in a medley relay and knows for a fact 1000 yards would kill him, especially if it isn’t the only race he is in.

Lance knows Matt is waiting for his usual baseless, cocky reaction — it’s almost a tradition between them before time trials to pump themselves up — though each time before, when Matt tried to stir up his competitive spirit, he failed. Lance doesn’t expend his energy on trivial matters like one-sided rivalries these days.

But today, for old times’ sake, or maybe because he’s stressed from his dropping grades and wants to forget about everything but the water for a bit, Lance turns to him with a smirk and says, “I bet I can get a faster time than you in the 100 freestyle.”

“You’re on,” Matt replies with a sharp grin.

The starting whistle blows.

  
***

  
“Good job today, Lance!” Pidge slaps him on the back and keeps pace beside him as he walks down the hallway to the gymnasium entrance. Matt has fallen behind them, and Lance can hear his grunts as he fights with his sweatshirt, trying to get the arm caught in the head hole to its rightful spot.

Lance doesn’t deserve her words, he barely met his last recorded best time. However, compared to how shitty he’s been swimming since the season started, he supposes the return of his normal scores is worth celebrating.

Lance gives Pidge a smile and pretends to feel proud. “I crushed your brother in the 100 free—”

“By half a second!” Matt yells, mouth muffled by his sweatshirt that he has yet to sort out.

“—so I’m thinking celebratory jumbo milkshakes at Sal’s.”

“Diet of champions,” Pidge says monotonously, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, you know as well as I do that you can’t wait to try Hunk’s new flavor of the month.”

Pidge says nothing, which Lance takes as a yes.

The diner is busy when they arrive, the dinging of the bell above the door lost amidst the chatter of college students who came pretending they were going to study but immediately shoved their textbooks to the side to indulge in a basket of waffle fries instead.

The tasteless yellow and white checkered tile floors and dark green vinyl booth seats could be ignored by the locals as a necessary evil in creating a nostalgic diner vibe, but rather, it is the large crowds of twenty-somethings that have taken over the space that keep locals away. It is almost a guarantee that families won’t find a free table to eat at, the booths stuffed with study groups and club members holding meetings. Families have better luck finding a free table in the evening, but most don’t want to share space with the late-night groups that come in with the munchies.

Photos are tacked to the walls showing the winners of Sal’s Burger Challenge. Lance once tried to eat the five-pound burger in five minutes; it’s not an experience he cares to relive. Hunk succeeded; whenever the table below his photo is available, Lance and Pidge take it.

Matt doesn’t stay with them long, citing homework as his excuse. It also probably has to do with the milkshake flavor of the month, mocha-chocolate-cheesecake. Pidge thinks Matt was switched at birth with an alien; he’s the only one in her family who doesn’t like chocolate. Lance lives for chocolate and finishes his milkshake before Pidge is halfway done with hers.

“Geez Lance, did you even taste it?”

Lance childishly sticks his tongue out, but Pidge doesn’t roll her eyes as she normally would, too busy waving at someone across the room. When Lance turns to see who she is waving to, they have already crossed the diner to stand in front of their booth.

“Hey, Pidge,” Shiro, god among men, greets.

Lance stares at Shiro slack-jawed before flashing a betrayed look at Pidge who never, not once, mentioned that she personally knew his idol. Shiro is one of the fastest swimmers on the Division I team, even after taking months off to heal from the car accident that cost him his arm. Shiro pushed himself through physical therapy and getting used to his prosthetic so he could swim again. Thinking about Shiro’s perseverance after such a life-altering event helped Lance whenever he felt close to breaking in the aftermath of his brother’s death. To him, Shiro is a reminder that someday Lance will be okay again too.

“Hi, Shiro. Hi, Keith,” Pidge replies.

At the mention of the other’s name, Lance looks past Shiro to notice Keith Kogane standing a few paces behind the taller male. Keith is not making eye contact, and his arms are crossed over his chest, a clear sign he does not want to be here talking to them.

Lance doesn’t expect Keith to recognize him from last night; it was dark, and they interacted for a minute, but he doesn’t like how standoffish Keith is acting. Pidge greeted him, and he barely nodded his head in return.

In retaliation for ignoring them, Lance chirpily says, “Hi, Keith,” drawing attention to the other male in an attempt to force a reaction out of him.

Shiro and Pidge look between Keith, who is going to leave bruises on his arms from how hard he is pressing his fingers into them, and Lance, who is staring intently at Keith waiting for him to make eye contact.

“You guys know each other?” Shiro says it with words but Pidge’s face asks the same question.

“Yeah, we met the other night.”

Keith stiffens, a wonder since his body is already so tense, and finally meets Lance’s eyes.

“Did we? I don’t remember you.” Despite Keith’s words, there is an almost pleading, anxious look in his eyes.

Lance lifts his lips into a smirk and turns to Shiro. “He tripped over my legs. It was an embarrassing fall.” Lance adds a chuckle to sell the lie.

“I always tell you to keep your freakishly long legs to yourself,” Pidge gripes. Out of the corner of his eye Lance sees Keith relax slightly.

“That’s actually how I met this doofus,” Pidge continues, pointing her thumb at him. “He rudely extended his legs across the entire sidewalk and I tripped over them.” The memory reignites the same anger Lance witnessed that day. “You broke my camera lens.”

“ _You_ broke your camera lens,” Lance responds automatically, this being a familiar exchange. “You were too busy looking through it to notice my legs.”

“I take it you guys have been friends for a while?”

Lance smiles broadly at Shiro as he reaches across the table to ruffle Pidge’s hair. “Since freshman year.”

He glances at Keith who is still angled away from the conversation but doesn’t look as guarded as he did before. “How do you guys know each other?” he asks, pointing between Shiro and Keith and then to Pidge.

“Shiro and Matt were roommates their freshman year,” Pidge explains. “When I enrolled here, Matt introduced me to this loser—” Pidge points at Shiro.

“Hey!”

“—who then introduced me to this loser.”

A finger points at Keith. “Fair.”

Pidge grins and Keith cracks his stony countenance to return it.

“I’m Lance,” Lance says, realizing he never introduced himself. Shiro reaches out his prosthetic arm to shake hands.

“Nice to meet you, Lance,” Shiro replies with sincerity. When Keith makes no move to shake hands or offer a cordial greeting as well, Shiro raises a questioning brow at him that goes unnoticed as Keith’s attention is fixated on the seventies’ style menu board hanging on the wall behind the cash register. Shiro taps him on the shoulder, drawing his attention back to their table.

“Do you guys want to—”

Before Pidge can finish extending her invitation, _Dried Up Youthful Fame_ starts playing and Shiro withdraws his ringing phone from his pocket, casting an apologetic smile at Pidge and Lance before focusing on his call.

“Hey, Allura.” Shiro glances behind him at Keith. “Yeah, he’s with me. We’re at Sal’s.” With a few words from the other line, the smile on Shiro’s face drops. “We’re on our way.”

A silent conversation passes between Keith and Shiro’s eyes. Shiro tosses his car keys to Keith who easily catches them and heads to the door. Shiro mouths sorry and waves goodbye as he follows Keith out, phone pressed against his ear as he speaks softly but firmly across the line.

“That was… abrupt,” Lance comments. Pidge shrugs, sucking up the last of her milkshake.

“Now that we’ve consumed five thousand calories in a cup, can we head back towards campus? I have to work on a project.”

“Sure.” Lance slides out of his seat, grabbing both his and Pidge’s empty glasses and setting them inside the dirty dishes bin.

“Hey, Hunk, we’re heading out,” Lance yells across the crowded room to his friend stationed at the milkshake machine. Hunk nods that he heard him but is too overwhelmed by the long line of customers to respond with more than that.

Hunk’s milkshake put Lance in a better mood, and he regales Pidge with the revenge plan Matt concocted for Professor Iverson until Pidge interrupts him mid-sentence.

“How did you really meet Keith?”

The question catches Lance off guard as it was intended to, and he freezes for a millisecond before letting his foot hit the ground again, trying to act natural and hoping Pidge didn’t notice the stutter in his walk.

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t acting like himself, and he looked extra tense when you addressed him.”

Lance shrugs. “I didn’t notice. He was probably just embarrassed after tripping over me last night.”

Reciting the lie doesn’t convince Pidge of its validity any more than it did the first time he told it.

“Fine, keep your secrets. But Keith’s my friend, so if you did something to upset him, apologize.”

Lance thinks of last night and releases a sigh. “I swear I didn’t.”

The curiosity grows behind Pidge’s eyes but, as nosy as Pidge can be, she knows when to let things go. That’s one of the many things Lance loves about her.

“You wanna work on your project at Hunk’s and my place?” Lance asks when they reach the gates of their university.

Pidge declines the offer, which Lance expected. When she needs to concentrate, she works better alone. Unlike Lance who works better with Pidge, but that might have more to do with her helping him when he needs it and less to do with him focusing better around people.

They wave quick goodbyes as Pidge walks towards her dorm and Lance continues down the street towards his apartment. Lance and Hunk asked her to join them when they first started talking about moving off campus for their junior year but Pidge declined, preferring the ease of living on campus. The library and the lab where she does research are both two minutes away from her building and that matters a helluva lot more to her than living with friends. They didn’t take it personally. With Hunk working most days at Sal’s and Pidge usually too caught up in her research to hang out, Lance is the only one to notice the emptiness of the apartment anyway.

Lance grabs a bag of pretzels and carries it to the living room, almost dropping it in fright when his cell phone starts ringing. Fetching his phone from his jacket pocket, Lance goes rigid upon seeing the Caller ID. He takes a deep breath and answers the call.

“Hey, Ma, what’s up?” Lance greets with forced cheerfulness. He’s perfected the art of sugarcoating his voice, the peppiness almost sickeningly sweet when he talks about how he is doing. Across the telephone line, his mother can’t detect the rot.

“I haven’t heard from you in over a week,” his mother says, voice strained.

It makes Lance feel guilty for not checking in more, but maintaining this act is exhausting. Still, he does it for his mother’s sake.

“Sorry, junior year is a lot busier than last year. I’m loving all my classes, though; my professors are all friendly. Well, except for one… But how about you? How are you and dad?”

Lance’s mother isn’t as skilled as him in pretending things are fine. She talks about volunteering for their church’s bake sale and joining a gardening club and what her and dad did for their weekly date night this week. She mentions cleaning out the attic and donating old toys and used clothing. She joined the book club at the library and is thinking about getting a part-time job as a receptionist at the doctor’s office in town to fill up the rest of her free time. Lance listens to her attempts at distracting herself from her eldest child’s death and chimes in with encouragement and enthusiasm when needed.

When the conversation turns back to him, Lance fabricates lies about how well he’s doing because that’s what will make his mother happy to hear. Time trials were today, and he did better than he expected, so he has a good chance of being in the meet next week. He spent the afternoon hanging out with his friends. This weekend he and Hunk are going to have a movie night, and Hunk is making his special popcorn with the ancho chile and chocolate. He’s too busy with swimming and school to come home for a weekend but he promises to call more. Love you, goodbye.

Hunk arrives home from work two hours later and they heat up Hot Pockets in the microwave for dinner, not willing to go to the grocery store to buy something better in the downpour that started a half hour ago.

It is still raining at 9 pm, but Lance slips on his rain boots, pulls on his light blue rain jacket, and accepts the thermos of coffee Hunk hands him.

“You wouldn’t go to the grocery store a block away for food in this weather, but you’ll sit under a tree for a few hours?”

Lance nods his head seriously, and the joking smile slips from Hunk’s lips.

“If the weather gets any worse, come home.”

Lance promises to do so and sets out for the bridge.

His long raincoat keeps him fairly dry, only the three-inches-high space between the top of his boots and end of his coat falling victim to the slanted rain. However, it might as well be his entire body that has gotten wet, as the relentless downpour of liquid bullets, though not permeating the fabric of his jacket, cover his body in a layer of cold not unlike being drenched.

There is a dry patch of grass at the base of his tree, the leaves bunched close together above the trunk acting as a barrier with a circumference large enough for him to sit with his knees folded up and remain dry. Outside his small circle is moist soil, the kind you’d find in a potted plant, and outside his tree is a thunderstorm, heavy rain melodiously hitting the boards of the bridge.

It is 11:06 pm when a familiar figure appears. The figure hesitates before stepping onto the bridge. The curtain of rain makes it difficult to see his face, but Lance can tell his head is turned towards where Lance appeared last night.

Not seeing anyone, Keith sinks down to the floorboards, slipping his legs under the horizontal wooden support beams of the bridge railing to hang over the edge and clutching the vertical beams in his hands. Lance waits for him to do something, but Keith just sits there, staring at the dark water below being pounded by the rain from above.

Lance loses his patience and leaves the relative warmth of his tree. His steps are masked by the rain, and Keith doesn’t notice him until he sits cross-legged right beside him.

“Enjoying a nice walk at night?” Lance teases.

Keith doesn’t scowl, doesn’t do anything. Continues staring at the water. Mumbles that he likes thunderstorms.

“Yeah? Me too. I like splashing in puddles and feeling the rain on my skin, but this is a lot of rain. Aren’t you cold?”

Lance appraises Keith’s outfit. He hasn’t changed since the diner: ripped grey jeans, a thermal maroon shirt, and an unzipped black leather jacket.

“You’re not wearing a rain jacket.”

Keith’s body responds with a strong shiver.

“You’re going to catch a cold. You should go home.”

Keith scowls this time, turning away from the river to face Lance. “What about you? What are you doing out here?”

“I’ll go home soon.”

“Me too, so mind your own business.”

Lance lets Keith’s harsh tone slide off him like the rain.

“Mind if I sit here with you?”

The twist of Keith’s lips says he does mind but he shrugs, sending water droplets flying off his shoulders.

The storm peters down to a strong drizzle while they sit there. Lance’s butt is frozen and from the corner of his eye he can see Keith’s body shake like the nearby trees.

“Thanks.” Keith doesn’t look him in the eye.

“For what?”

Keith sighs and tilts his head back, letting the water pool on his closed eyelids and slide down the sides of his thin, straight nose. Small droplets of rain cling to his pale skin like freckles.

“For not mentioning last night in front of Shiro.”

“Well, you didn’t seem like you wanted me to say anything, so…”

“Yeah.”

Lance scoots so his body is turned towards Keith. “Hey, you alright?”

Keith drops his head forward but it doesn’t hide the deep frown that has taken over his countenance. Keith tightens his grip on the railing and Lance is about to ask again, but in the next moment Keith relaxes both his hands and his expression and shrugs. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Lance tries to catch Keith’s gaze. “I know we don’t know each other, but maybe that helps. You know, if you ever need someone to talk to.”

“I’m fine,” Keith repeats.

Lance wants to argue that if he’s so ‘fine,’ what is he doing on this bridge in the pouring rain without any rain gear? He doesn’t. If he pushes too much, Keith might not come back. There are probably one or two other bridges in this city, and Lance wants Keith to return to this one, where he is.

“When are you heading home?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re shivering.”

Keith stares down at his body.

“I guess.”

Lance groans dramatically, the sound loud and unexpected enough to startle Keith out of his apathetic state momentarily.

“C’mon.” Lance rises to his feet.

“C’mon,” he urges when Keith stares at his proffered hand like it’s a glowing alien tentacle. Keith grips Lance’s rain-spattered hand tightly and lets it lift him to his feet.

Keith doesn’t ask any questions and doesn’t pull his hand from Lance’s cold grip as Lance lifts the low-hanging branches of his tree and ushers Keith under them. He releases Keith’s hand and sits down in his spot. Keith slowly moves to sit beside him.

Lance picks up his thermos and holds it out to Keith.

“Coffee?”

“It’s nighttime.”

Lance holds it out further. “It’s warm.”

Keith accepts the thermos and takes a small sip. He pulls it away from his mouth and stares at it in surprise, and Lance remembers it has no milk or sugar in it. To Lance’s own surprise, Keith takes a larger sip.

“Good?”

Keith’s smile is small but genuine. “Yeah.”

A thought pops into his head that makes Lance chuckle.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Lance shakes his head ruefully. “Well, isn’t this, just,” he bites his lip, “kinda funny? We’ve been at the same university for three years and never ran into each other once until yesterday, and now we’ve bumped into each other three times in the last twenty-four hours.”

Keith makes a sound of agreement. They sit together quietly, getting lost in their own thoughts. Lance’s thoughts take him back to earlier that day.

“Hey, uh… Tell me if I’m overstepping, but is everything okay? The call Shiro got at Sal’s today, it seemed serious.”

Keith takes another sip of coffee before passing the thermos to Lance.

“Our friend Allura has depression. She takes medication for it but sometimes it doesn’t help, and when things get bad, she calls Shiro or me.”

Lance absorbs this information. He doesn’t know Allura Altea personally, but you’d have to be a hermit to have never seen her on campus. As the passionate president of Her Campus magazine and the friendly face of the LGBTQIA club, Allura is very visible on campus, always smiling as she passes out fliers. Lance never would have guessed Allura Altea has depression. Then again, he knows how easy it can be to overlook.

“Is she okay with you telling me?”

Keith looks sharply at Lance. “Allura doesn’t care who knows. Mental illness isn’t shameful.”

“No, I know,” Lance quickly agrees. “But not everyone feels comfortable having other people know their business. I don’t want her to be mad at you for telling me.”

“She won’t be.”

Keith looks like he wants to say more so Lance keeps quiet. In the end, Keith says nothing. They pass the thermos of coffee back and forth until it is empty. Lance checks his phone and it is almost half past twelve. He sees two new messages in his inbox, both from Hunk, and sends his friend a quick text telling him not to worry and that he’ll be home soon.

“It’s really late. My friend is definitely freaking out that I’m not back yet.”

Lance stands up and holds his hand out to Keith, who accepts it much quicker the second time around.

“You live on campus?” Lance asks as they walk in the direction of the university.

Keith shakes his head. “No. Shiro, Allura, and I share an apartment.”

“Oh, cool. Me and my friend Hunk live off campus too. I miss not having to cook for myself but it’s definitely much cheaper to rent an apartment.”

Keith nods in agreement and the conversation dies out. To Lance’s surprise, it doesn’t feel awkward, walking with Keith and not speaking. Often, Lance feels like he has to fill the silence, but he feels no pressure from Keith to do so and thus he drifts with his thoughts as they walk.

“This is where I turn,” Lance says when they make it to his street, identifiable in the dim streetlight-lit dark by the blue mailbox covered in cat stickers on the corner. Keith nods, thanks him for the coffee, then continues down the street without a backwards glance.

Hunk is indeed freaking out when Lance walks through the door, holding out a towel for him to dry himself with and a cup of decaffeinated chamomile tea to warm him up. Lance personally thinks chamomile tastes like dust bunnies, or maybe socks — no, he has never eaten either — but he gratefully accepts the warm beverage nonetheless.

“Why are you back so late?”

Lance changes into his fuzzy pajama bottoms with the dolphins on them and a t-shirt he’s had since high school before plopping down on the small couch in their living room. He considers telling a white lie, but when it counts, Hunk knows how to keep a secret.

“Keith was there again.”

“At the bridge? Why?” There are other questions Hunk asks with his worried eyes, too afraid to voice them. He doesn’t need to since Lance knows what he’s thinking.

“He just came to… sit and enjoy the storm, I think?”

Reflecting back on it, Lance isn’t sure. After an hour of sitting under the tree together in peaceful camaraderie, he forgot the emotionless air that Keith had when Lance first sat beside him on the bridge. Enjoying the storm would be a more believable excuse if Keith looked like he had actually been enjoying it.

“You think? Did he say anything?”

“I’m tired, Hunk. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

That isn’t a promise. Lance knows he won’t want to talk about it in the morning. He has nothing to say, anyway. Keith didn’t do anything but sit in the rain. And if one day he does do something, Lance will be there, sitting under his tree and guarding the bridge.

  
***

  
“Hey, you’ve been kind of distant lately. Everything okay?”

Lance battles with himself on whether it can be considered eavesdropping on Shiro and Keith’s conversation if their voices carry in the cool morning air. They are huddled together to the side of the line of swimmers filing onto the bus. Lance can’t hear anything Keith is saying, but the roll of his eyes and smile on his lips as he speaks soothe away the worried furrow between Shiro’s brows. Shiro pats Keith on the back and then heads to the front of the bus to usher his teammates on quicker.

In the moment after Shiro walks away and before Keith turns to see Lance staring at him, Keith’s mask breaks. When the smile melts away and the friendly shine in his eyes fades, what is revealed is a troublingly blank expression. No emotion crinkles the corners of Keith’s eyes or lifts the edges of his mouth until he realizes Lance is watching him; then the small smile returns and Keith nods his head in acknowledgement before he steps onto the bus.

They are headed to a meet at a university twenty minutes across the city. The bus is just large enough to hold both Division I and II teams, and Lance happens to notice Keith sitting next to Shiro in the middle of the bus. Lance watches as Keith jokes with the teammates sitting in front of and behind him.

Huh. Apparently, Keith is not the loner their brief interactions led Lance to assume. Appearances are deceiving. Lance feels like he is constantly relearning this lesson.

Pidge and Matt sit next to each other, and Lance finds himself sitting next to Coach Coran at the front of the bus. As his coach, Lance has seen Coran’s strict, commanding side, but right now with Lance he is goofy, occasionally talking about the upcoming meet, but mostly trading silly stories about his time as a student, back when the decor of Sal’s diner wasn’t considered retro.

When they arrive at Luxia University, the two teams split apart and enter through different doors to the same large gymnasium building. Luxia University is Voltron University’s greatest competitor in swimming; they are currently ranked second nationally, while Voltron University is ranked third.

VU used to be ranked sixth. The year before Lance enrolled, the team jumped up a ranking due to their new recruits, one freshman in particular whose name rhymes with ‘hero.’ Then, during Lance’s freshman year, another impressive addition to the Division I team helped them rise two more spots.

Being ranked second comes with its perks, as evidenced by Luxia’s state of the art gymnasium. A soundproof glass wall separates two twenty-five-yard-long swimming pools, allowing both the Division I and II teams to compete simultaneously without the whistles and shouting from one side interfering with the other.

Lance’s race is one of the first, the 200-yard freestyle. It passes by in a blur, and when the scores show up on the flat screen panel on the back wall of the gymnasium, he sees his name in fifth place behind two of his teammates and two of Luxia’s swimmers. Not bad.

Lance is expected to cheer on his teammates now that he is done racing, but his enthusiasm is meager at best, a half-hearted attempt to cover up his distraction. Through the glass dividing wall, Lance can see Keith taking position in the water, easily discernible with his black and red swim cap puffed up high from all the hair stuffed inside it. Lance can’t hear the whistle being blown or the shouts of encouragement from both teams through the wall, though he could imagine it clearly using the splashing and shouts from his own side. Instead, he lets it all fade to the background, only relying on his sense of sight. It’s like watching a silent film, no noise to explain what is happening, forcing the viewer to rely on facial expressions and body language to discern the atmosphere.

Keith is too far away for Lance to see his features clearly, but he imagines Keith’s jaw is set and his eyes are narrowed at the flags overhead as he quickly takes the lead. This must be the 400-yard individual medley race, Lance thinks, watching Keith reach the end of the pool and switch from backstroke to breaststroke seamlessly.

The ease with which Keith cuts through the water, how his body seemingly weighs nothing — weightless enough to fly — is what Lance has always found captivating about swimming. That feeling of weightlessness was addicting, and once Lance discovered it, he fell in love, spending all his free time at the public pool. Watching Keith, he remembers how he used to feel, back before swimming became a never-ending challenge to improve his times, to carve through the water faster than his competitors. He can’t recall the last time he relished the blissful calm of having his body supported by the flowing water around him. It was at least four years ago, before the expectations and pressures to swim in college drowned him.

The last hand slaps the pool wall and the timekeepers approach to record names next to the times. Once that is completed, the swimmers pull their weary bodies out of the water and stand with their teams as the scores appear on the screen. VU’s team didn’t need to wait to see the results; Keith had been waiting at the finish line for seven seconds before the second swimmer finished the race.

Without the auditory distractions, Lance intently focuses on body language and facial reactions. Keith’s teammates are jovially patting him on the back and Keith is grinning in return. If Lance were on the other side of the wall, maybe he too would be caught up in the loud cheering and the playful shoving and the constant movement of people around him. Maybe he would be too caught up in everything else to focus on the minute nuances of Keith’s expression: the way his eyes don’t convey the same emotion as his mouth.

It could just be the distance that makes the smile look forced to Lance, the fluorescent lighting that makes Keith’s eyes look dull. Keith won first place against their hardest competitors, of course he would smile with his team. But Lance doesn’t let himself be fooled. He too easily recognizes a smile made for other people’s benefit.

  
***

  
Lance isn’t too surprised to see Keith at the bridge that night. As for Keith, he looks almost relieved when he pulls back the hanging branches of the tree and sees Lance sitting underneath.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Can I sit here?”

“Go ahead.” Lance shuffles to the side, making room for Keith on the small blanket he’s started bringing now that the weather is colder and the ground freezes his ass. “Good job in the meet today, heard you got first place.”

“Thanks. How’d you do?”

Lance shrugs. “About what I expected.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Lance doesn’t know. Maybe it’s bad and he should want to do better, but he’s surprised his score wasn’t much lower, so maybe it’s good. He shrugs.

“Am I bothering you?”

Lance had been staring at the bridge through the branches but whips his head to the side to try and catch Keith’s gaze in order to assure him he isn’t a bother. Keith is already looking at him.

“No,” Lance says, the surprise at Keith’s question and sincerity in his response clear in his voice.

“Oh. Usually you’re more talkative.”

Lance thinks back over their exchange and realizes he hasn’t been the best conversationalist, giving short responses with no follow up.

“Sorry. How about a different topic? What’s your favorite…” Lance’s gaze flits over their surroundings, trying to think of a question. “… tree?”

“What’s my favorite tree?” Keith repeats, tone dripping with amusement.

Lance playfully shoves him, knocking a laugh out of Keith. “Shut up, it’s all I could think of.”

“Very creative. Okay. Hmm… I guess I like those small trees people have in their yards, the kind that are sorta shaped like open bottomed ovals and grow flowers in the spring. They’re pretty.”

“Wow. Specific.”

Keith frowns at him. “I don’t know the names of trees. How else was I going to describe it to you?”

“Fair point. This wasn’t the best topic change.”

“No, it really wasn’t.”

“Coffee?”

“Please.” Keith accepts the thermos and tips it back.

“This is kinda awkward.” Keith snorts his agreement, giving Lance the confidence to say, “Want to fast forward and pretend we’ve known each other for at least a year?”

That earns Lance another laugh. “Sure. So… Lance, buddy, what’s new with you?”

“Not much, Keith, my pal. After all, I did see you earlier today and told you all about how I’m failing that class with Iverson, right?”

“Right, right. That guy’s an asshole. My friend Matt is taking his class this semester and—”

“Wait, is your friend Matt Holt?”

“Yeah. You know him? Oh right, he swims D2—”

“Matt’s my friend too.”

They stop talking over each other and laugh, signaling the other to finish what they were saying until Lance explains, “Matt and I were friends before swimming together. His sister Pidge is one of my best friends, so the three of us hang out a lot.”

“Right, you were with Pidge that time at Sal’s. That was actually the first time I’ve seen her all semester. We used to do movie nights together with Matt and Shiro, but she’s been busy with her lab lately. How is she?”

“Good, I think. Like you said, busy with her lab. But that’s no excuse to bail on friends. I’m trying to find an evening when she’s free and so is our other friend Hunk so we can have a pizza night. When I finally get her to commit to a day, you could join us?”

“Oh, no, I—”

“You’re not intruding. Give me your phone; we’ll trade numbers.”

Keith fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket and passes it to Lance. It’s a smartphone, but at least four generations old. Unlike Lance’s phone of one year, Keith’s has no cracks across the screen, not even a scratch. If Lance owned a cat, he’d definitely trust Keith to take care of it if he was ever gone for a few days.

Lance creates a new contact, sends himself a text, then hands the phone back to Keith who checks the time before returning it to his pocket.

“I’ve got swim practice in the morning, so I should head out. See you around?”

Lance lifts his thermos in farewell, only wondering once Keith is out of sight if he meant he’d see him during the day or night and whether it makes a difference either way.

  
***

  
The end of the week should be a time to relax with friends, maybe hit the bars or go bowling. Instead, Hunk is busy with the school newspaper and Pidge is working on her research project at the lab, leaving Lance alone. He can’t even properly miss their company because he is busy too.

The campus library is filled with students preparing for midterms. All the desks on the 24-hour quiet-study floors are taken, but that doesn’t bother Lance, who ascends another flight of stairs to a regular floor in search of a table he can spread his books out upon. He can’t study well in complete silence. It was a relief when he reached this floor and heard students who weren’t afraid to cough or take a sip of water, actions which would receive the deadliest of glares on the 24-hour quiet-study floors.

Lance zigzags through bookshelves, searching for an empty table when he hears high, airy laughter and a contrasting rough chuckle. His curiosity leads him around the corner where he sees Keith, smiling broadly as he pulls futilely against Shiro’s arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders, Shiro’s prosthetic hand rubbing a noogie into his head.

“Ow, quit it,” Keith laughs, slapping at Shiro’s arm when pulling at it receives no results. Shiro relents with a final chuckle and slowly releases Keith as he spots Lance standing at the end of the bookcase.

“Hey, Lance,” he greets with an inviting smile.

“Hey, guys,” Lance responds, stepping away from the bookshelves and closer to their table.

“You here to study?” Keith asks. Lance nods his head.

“Want to join us?” Keith doesn’t wait for a response before he kicks the chair across from him out from under the table and gestures for Lance to sit. Lance sets his backpack on the floor and sits while Shiro and Keith pull their books and study guides closer to them, making more room for Lance.

“What are you studying?” Shiro inquires with genuine curiosity as Lance pulls notebooks from his backpack.

“Uh, English literature.” Lance waits for the surprised looks, the ones he is used to receiving. Apparently, he doesn’t look like he reads, not anything besides comics and magazines at least, but the looks never come.

Instead, Shiro says, “That’s a tough major. Our friend Allura is an English Lit major too. I would cry if I ever had to do some of the assignments she has,” and Keith nods his head in agreement.

Struck dumb by pleasant surprise, Lance stares at them for a second before thinking to ask what they are studying.

“I’m in the Nursing program,” Shiro responds, and Lance wonders how Shiro can say with complete sincerity that English Literature is a hard major.

Lance turns to Keith, who says, “Sociology.”

“Cool,” Lance says for lack of anything better to say. He took a Sociology course on social problems to fulfill a Gen Ed requirement during his freshman year. He remembers learning about workplace inequality, poverty, discrimination, and global pollution. At the end of the course, he came out with the revelation that humans are a plague infesting the planet.

When they settle down to study, Lance keeps quiet at first, waiting to see the mood Keith and Shiro set for their study sessions. To his delight, they study well together, steadily moving through their notes but allowing each other to interrupt with random thoughts or incomprehensible groans of tiredness, the latter more often from Keith, quickly followed by an encouraging pat on the shoulder from Shiro.

They pass three hours in this way before Keith grumbles, “I can’t study anymore,” turning in his seat to face Shiro and lowering his head to lightly bite the man’s shoulder. Shiro doesn’t react, as if Keith gripping him with his teeth is perfectly normal, expected behavior.

“Cut it out, you weirdo,” Shiro mutters, acknowledging that Keith’s behavior is in fact not normal.

“Ah’m ha’nghee,” Keith says, his words unclear to Lance but not to Shiro.

“I’ll buy you a milkshake once you’ve finished studying for your Corporate Crime exam.”

Keith unlatches his mouth from Shiro’s shoulder to whine — honest to God whine — “Buy me a milkshake _now_.”

Lance watches the face-off begin, Shiro’s stern parental gaze against Keith’s pouty lip and puppy-dog eyes. Lance is glad Shiro isn’t his parent, because faced with that look, stern because he only has the other person’s best interests at heart, Lance never would have done half of the things he did in high school for fear of disappointing him.

But Keith is holding his own, and Lance is glad he isn’t a parent because Keith is making his lower lip tremble, like at any moment he might cry if he doesn’t get his way, and paired with his long, fluttering dark eyelashes, Lance knows he would give in to whatever Keith asked for when making that face.

“Ugh,” Shiro groans, running his hands down his face. “Fine, you win.” Under his breath he grumbles, “Like always.”

Keith grins like the Cheshire cat.

Shiro stands up, stretching his arms above his head before reaching into his back pocket for his phone. “I’m going to see if Allura’s meeting has finished and she wants to join us.”

Keith shoves his textbooks into his backpack but looks up when he notices Lance isn’t moving. “Hurry up, Lance. In case he changes his mind.”

Lance startles, surprised to learn that he is invited. With an impatient gesture from Keith urging him to pack up his stuff, Lance does so, and the three of them depart for Sal’s.

  
***

  
“Ahh, brain freeze,” Keith whines, scrunching his eyes shut and rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Aww, poor baby,” Allura coos. Lance can’t tell if she’s sincere or mocking him. Probably both.

“That’s what you get for inhaling your milkshake,” Shiro states with no sympathy.

Keith moves to punch Shiro in the arm but Shiro catches his fist, predicting Keith’s move. Keith, predicting Shiro’s block, swings his other arm around to pinch Shiro’s cheek.

“Hey!” Shiro protests, rubbing his sore cheek. Keith ignores him and swipes Shiro’s milkshake, taking a long sip of it before grimacing and rubbing his forehead again.

“Idiot,” Shiro says affectionately with a roll of his eyes.

Lance watches the entire scene play out, enraptured by the sight of Keith interacting with his closest friends.

The first time he heard Keith Kogane’s name, it was during his freshman year when Hunk was tasked with writing an article about the new prodigy swimmer. Without ever interacting with him and only having Keith’s swim times as true facts about the guy, Lance’s image of Keith Kogane was that of a serious guy who lived and breathed for swimming, too busy training for the Olympics to do regular college things like drink milkshakes with friends. Maybe at one time he would have looked at the scene around him and thought Keith was a meathead athlete trying to impress the pretty girl sitting across from him. Up close Lance can see the dimples on Keith’s cheeks, caused by his smile. He looks proud, like he’s patting himself on the back for making Allura laugh hard enough to grip her stomach.

When she catches her breath, Allura twists in her seat to face Lance.

“So, Lance. Keith says you’re on the Division II team with Matt?”

“Yeah.” Lance racks his brain for something to say that will keep the conversation going but comes up short. Thankfully, Allura is a much better conversationalist than he is at the moment.

“How did you get into swimming?”

Lance has been swimming so long, it takes him a minute to remember how he first started. “Uh, well, my older brother and sister swam for our town’s team in the summer. I’d go with my mom to cheer them on and it looked like fun. When I turned… seven, I think?, my siblings taught me how to swim, and I joined the town team the following summer. I’ve been swimming ever since.”

Lance lowers his gaze to the right, realizing he had been staring blankly over Allura’s shoulder as he went through his memories, but she is smiling kindly, not upset in the slightest by his failure to maintain eye contact as they conversed.

“That’s nice. Do your siblings still swim?”

Lance swallows nothing, his mouth suddenly dry. It takes him too long to answer. “Not, like, on a team. My sister never enjoyed competing. But her house has a pool, so she still swims when the weather’s nice.”

His shoulders tense in preparation for an unwanted question that never comes.

Shiro sips the last of his milkshake then pushes the empty glass away from him. “You guys want to hit the arcade?”

“I’m down,” Keith instantly agrees.

The city area surrounding their university has two popular hang-outs, both of them old-fashioned. Sal’s Diner is one, serving cheap, junk food close to campus, its popularity a no-brainer. The other popular hangout is the arcade. Lance hasn’t been there in a while. He used to go all the time, even more so after Matt started working there and could sometimes give them a few free coins for games.

With genuine regret lacing his tone, Lance says, “Thanks for the invite, but I have to take a raincheck; I have more studying to do.”

“You’ve been studying all day, take a break.”

Lance wishes he could follow Keith’s suggestion, but he knows he can’t.

“I’ve fallen behind in some of my classes and I need to make up the work before midterms,” he explains, frowning to convey that he really does wish he could hang out with them more.

“Alright, good luck with your work,” Allura encourages, followed by a nod expressing the same from Keith.

They pay separately and part ways, the trio to the arcade and Lance to his apartment to do some more studying before 9 pm rolls around.

  
***

  
There are two bags of trail mix and two thermoses of coffee packed in Lance’s backpack tonight on the off-chance that Keith shows up. Lance thinks back to earlier today, watching Keith interact with Shiro and Allura, and doubts he will see him tonight.

Ever since that night where they sat together, sharing his coffee and talking about whatever topics came to mind, Lance struggles with an inner battle nightly. He wants to see Keith in this small pocket of space and time they’ve carved out for themselves, but he also wants Keith to be at home, warm in bed.

Lance ignores his share of the snacks, saving them to enjoy with Keith if he arrives. Until then, he’ll get some reading done for class. It’s slow-going using his phone as a light, but his grades have begun to slip from the late nights of the past two months. If he’s going to always get less sleep than his body and mind need, at least he will spend the extra hours awake productively.

In his British Literature class, they are reading  _Romeo and Juliet_. Many of his classmates complained, including himself; they’re English majors, of course they’ve read _Romeo and Juliet_ , and on top of that, they’re upperclassmen who should be tackling harder literature. Professor Montgomery held firm in her decision to make them reread the play, explaining that it is precisely because they read it in high school and had a general knowledge of the story before even then that she wants them to reread it. It is easy to think you understand something because you’ve experienced it once, she told them. As English majors, they need to look deeper, not only at the morals and themes of the story, but at the characters themselves. It is easy to write Romeo and Juliet off as lustful, dramatic, idiotic teenagers. For the next two weeks, she wants the class to reread the play and try to understand the mindset of the characters, to comprehend the thoughts that permitted their actions.

Before Lance read the play in high school, he thought _Romeo and Juliet_ was about a beautiful love that conquers over adversity. After he read it, he realized it was about two stupid teens whose idea of true love was ending their lives for each other, never bothering in their less-than-a-week love affair to find a practical solution to their problems.

Lance has difficulty seeing anything different on his second read-through.

Midnight passes, his phone alarm chimes, and Keith does not show. Lance shoves his book into his backpack and treks back to his apartment.

  
***

  
“‘Sup.”

Lance looks up from the notes he borrowed from Matt. He slept through his alarm and missed Iverson’s class again. He also forgot to do today’s reading, so he can add that to his to-do list of missed homework assignments. The domino effect that began with his reduced amount of sleep knocked down the rest of his day and he had to tell Pidge he couldn’t come to swim practice. He’s been sitting in this booth at Sal’s for the past two hours, his notebooks and textbooks scattered around him messily in a replica of his life.

Keith stands in front of his table, and Lance envies how relaxed and put-together he looks. His posture is loose, one arm resting on the top of the booth seat across from Lance. His trademark leather jacket is unzipped like always, revealing a grey shirt with an album cover on it for a band Lance doesn’t recognize. Keith’s soft-looking hair is pulled back into a small ponytail, though a few wavy tendrils frame his face. His skin is the healthy kind of pale and Lance feels self-conscious about the purple bags ever-present under his eyes.

“Hey,” he responds with all the energy his exhausted body can muster.

Keith motions at the unoccupied seat across from him. Lance nods his head and Keith slides into the booth.

“Studying?”

“Yeah, though I’m not making much progress.” Lance rhythmically taps the eraser end of his pencil against his textbook.

“Is the material difficult?”

Keith seems genuinely curious so Lance gives him a genuine answer instead of sparing him the explanation and ending the conversation with a simple but untruthful ‘yes.’

“Not really. But I’ve slept through a few too many classes, so I have a lot to catch up on.”

“Why don’t you go to bed earlier?”

“Can’t.” Lance looks down at his textbook and copies the boldfaced terms and their definitions listed at the top of the chapter into his notebook. “Have to stay at the bridge till midnight.”

Keith’s eyes widen. “You go there every night?”

“Yup.”

Keith opens his mouth but whatever he is about to say is interrupted by Pidge, who stomps up to their table with her arms crossed and eyes narrowed. With her standing and him sitting, they are at eye level, Lance muses.

“Too busy for practice but not for socializing?”

“Hey, Pidge,” Keith greets with a smile.

“‘Sup,” Pidge responds, meeting Keith for a fist bump.

“You’re not at practice either,” Lance points out.

“Practice got out early today, which you would have known if you had shown up.”

“I told you I wasn’t coming. I need to concentrate on my classes, which you would have known if you were around more to hang out.”

Pidge’s angry look falters, making way for guilt. Lance feels bad. He knows she isn’t purposely neglecting their friendship, but he meant what he said. He decides to extend an olive branch.

“Look, we’re both busy. Junior year is sucking ass and not in the nice way. How about we plan a party for after finals? We can catch up then, right?”

Pidge’s countenance shifts once again, this time to a relieved smile. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

“Awesome!” Lance grins, glad to have mended a fracturing friendship. “We can order pizza, and I’ll ask Hunk to make something for dessert. Make sure Matt brings his Xbox.”

“I’ll steal it from his apartment the night before. If we leave it to him, he’ll just forget it like last time.”

“Smart thinking, Pidge. You’re going to come too, right, Keith?”

“Oh, uh…”

“Keith has to come,” Pidge intervenes. “I need some serious competition in _Just Dance_.”

Keith smirks. “Are you sure you’re ready for another spectacular defeat?”

“Ha! You wish, Kogane. I totally crushed you last time we played.”

Keith opens his mouth to retort then closes it, frowning as the memories of ‘last time’ rush back.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Pidge gloats, resting her hands on her hips.

“Whatever.” Keith rolls his eyes and slides out of the booth, swinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Text me when you pick a day and time for the party, I’ll bring chips or something.”

“You’re not staying?” Pidge looks truly bummed to see Keith go, and Lance would feel affronted that his company isn’t good enough for her if he didn’t feel the same way.

“Nah, I was just stopping by to see the new flavor of the week. White chocolate raspberry isn’t my thing; I’m not about that fake chocolate life.”

“Preach, man.” Pidge and Keith share another fist bump.

“Alright, see you guys around.” Keith tosses a two-finger wave of farewell over his shoulder as he departs, the bell above the door tolling his departure.

All too soon Lance’s reprieve from studying is gone.

  
***

  
Lance would rather be in bed, but having to catch up on all his missed work yesterday was brutal. He still isn’t caught up, especially not in Iverson’s class since he skips it so often. He’ll have to ask Matt to borrow his lecture notes again.

“Hey, Lance!”

Speak of the devil. Lance turns around, hiking his backpack back onto his shoulder when the motion causes it to slip off. Matt looks mildly disgruntled when he shoves a lidded paper cup at him.

“Hey, what—”

“It’s from Keith. He said to stop sleeping through your classes and go to swim practice.”

Lance cradles the warm beverage between his hands, lifting it to his lips and taking a cautious sip. Bitter black coffee spreads along his tongue and down his throat, the perfect temperature after traversing campus with Matt.

“I’ve been his friend since he enrolled here, and he’s never bought me a coffee,” Matt grouses.

Lance holds back his laugh; he will never tire of seeing a petulant Holt. Their cheeks puff out like a chipmunk and their eyes almost go cross-eyed from staring down their nose.

“Here, you can have a sip of mine.” Lance holds the paper cup out to his friend as a peace offering. “Fair warning though, it’s black.”

Matt’s extended hand withdraws at his words. “No milk?”

“Nope.”

“Sugar?”

“None.”

“Cruel world! I take my complaint back. I guess Keith actually hates you if he gave you that tar to drink.”

Lance doesn’t hold back his laugh this time. It feels good to laugh.

  
***

  
There is no wind blowing tonight. Lance is comfortably warm leaving his winter jacket unzipped, but his hands are still grateful for the warmth of his thermos.

He hasn’t been checking the time too frequently. He hasn’t. Maybe every five minutes or so. Sometimes it feels like more time has passed than it has, and he is shocked to see only three minutes have passed since the last time he checked his phone.

Keith arrives at 10:22 pm. Lance drops his phone into his bag, no longer needing it.

“Coffee?”

Lance pulls the extra thermos he packed out of his bag and holds it out for Keith to take once he’s settled next to Lance against the broad trunk of the tree.

“Thanks.”

Lance watches Keith sip the black coffee without any concern that it might be too hot and waits for a yelp but receives nothing. He knows the coffee is still too hot, he tested his own thermos moments before Keith’s arrival. Keith downs it easily.

“How long have you been here?” Keith asks, a small furrow between his brows as he scans Lance’s undoubtedly haggard features. They are only able to see each other’s faces on this cloudy night from the soft glow of the flashlight Hunk bought him a month ago after he twisted his ankle tripping over a root in the darkness.

“I leave my apartment at 9 pm and get here about ten minutes later.”

“And you said you come here every night?”

Lance nods. Instead of pressing for a reason like Lance expects, Keith drops the subject, leaving it to Lance to explain if he wants. Lance appreciates it. Maybe he’ll tell Keith next time, but tonight he wants to forget.

“So. Pidge tells me you guys have been hanging out more.”

Keith smiles warmly. “Yeah, guess she took your words to heart about not locking herself in the lab. Thanks for that. I missed hanging out with her; she’s a lot of fun.”

“Fun? Pidge?” Lance wrinkles his nose in mock distaste. “What do you even do together?”

Keith takes a sip of his coffee. “Mostly we send each other dank memes or watch shitty movies on Netflix together.”

“I can believe that you have awful taste in movies, but do you really know what dank memes are?”

Keith frowns at him.

“I saw how outdated your phone is, dude,” Lance explains.

Keith shuffles sideways so he is facing Lance. “Okay, first of all, I don’t have awful taste in movies. We watch the shit ones because they’re entertaining in their stupidity. Like reality TV. Second, I’m not going to buy the newest phone model when mine still works fine. And third, I admit I’m not totally clear on what makes a meme ‘dank,’ but the ones I send Pidge are funny. Unlike the ones you send her.”

“How would you know?”

“She shows me, and we laugh.”

“Ha! You laugh, so they did their job.”

“We laugh because they’re stupid, like the shit movies we watch.”

“Hmph. Then don’t expect me to send you any. You’re not worthy.”

“Oh no, how will I go on?” Keith deadpans.

Despite Keith’s words, a few days later Lance gets a text complaining about the meme Pidge received and he didn’t. Lance smiles at his phone and after a few necessary remarks about how oh-so-shitty he’s been told his memes are and Keith shouldn’t be subjected to them, he relents and sends a few. Thus begins their near daily texting back and forth.

“Who are you always texting?”

Lance hadn’t noticed Hunk’s presence behind him until his friend spoke, too engrossed in the task of choosing the perfect reactionary gif. Lance quickly crushes his phone against his chest to hide the screen from Hunk’s prying eyes. He usually tells Hunk everything but for some reason he hasn’t spoken to Hunk about Keith since he mentioned seeing him at the bridge over a month ago. If possible, he wants to find a way to avoid answering Hunk’s question without lying, but that option is drop-kicked out the window by Pidge, who Lance also hadn’t noticed sitting in their kitchen on her laptop for who knows how long.

“Probably Keith.”

“Keith? Keith Kogane?” Hunk asks, with all the surprise and curiosity that Lance wanted to avoid by hiding his screen.

“Yeah, we’ve been hanging out recently.”

“At the bridge?” Hunk asks, innocent in his curiosity. Lance could throttle him anyway.

“Wait,” Pidge hops off the kitchen bar stool and approaches them, worry lines between her brows. “Keith hangs out with you at the bridge? Why?”

Lance shrugs, trying to act casual and hopefully erase Pidge’s worry. “Yeah, sometimes he’s at the bridge and we hang out. But we study together and go to Sal’s too.”

Lance shrugs again, remembering too late he already did that and his twitchy behavior probably isn’t doing anything to diffuse Pidge’s unfounded concern; he’s not sure why she’s acting like this anyway.

“It’s not unfounded,” Pidge protests, making Lance realize he spoke his thoughts aloud. “Have you ever asked Keith why he’s at the bridge late at night?”

No, he hasn’t. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to push Keith’s personal boundaries, but maybe it’s because he’s afraid of what Keith might say.

What if something is wrong? After all, Keith didn’t want anyone knowing he comes to the bridge. No one but him (and Hunk and now Pidge) know about these late nights.

If Lance doesn’t ask the hard questions, who will?

  
***

  
Three nights pass and Keith doesn’t show up at the bridge. That’s not unusual; Keith’s presence is sporadic. But another two weeks could pass before Keith shows up again. Lance will still be here in two weeks time, but now that Pidge has reminded him how he met Keith in the first place, he’d really prefer to talk to Keith sooner rather than later and put his fledgling worries to rest.

On a Tuesday night, Lance sends Keith a text.

L: u coming to the bridge 2nite?

He gets a reply two minutes later.

K: wasnt planning on it. y? want company?

Lance ponders his response. He doesn’t want to trick Keith into visiting him and then grill him with questions. He’ll just have to be patient.

L: no, just wondering if i could drink the 2nd coffee I packed

K: lol, its all urs

  
***

  
Keith shows up when Lance doesn’t expect him, around 12:30 am on a Monday night. It’s been about a week since Lance texted to see if Keith would be at the bridge, and Keith said he would text him if he planned to come. Keith didn’t text him tonight.

Maybe Keith figured Lance would be home already, as he normally would be, but tonight Lance got caught up in _Romeo and Juliet_ , overanalyzing all the characters actions and words.

Maybe that’s why Lance immediately feels suspicious that Keith shows up when he knows Lance is usually gone. Keith doesn’t make his way to the trees to even check if Lance is here. He grips the railings of the bridge and looks down below.

“You’re too late, I already drank the second coffee,” Lance teases, stepping out from under the trees.

Keith whips around, hands up defensively in an imitation of their first meeting.

“Lance.” With the recognition, Keith drops his arms. “Why aren’t you home?”

“Got caught up in homework. Why aren’t you?”

Keith crosses his arms over his chest and speaks to the left of Lance’s head. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well you’re not going to find sleep out here,” he jokes. Keith doesn’t react, no roll of the eyes or huff of a laugh; his face is blank.

“You heading home now?”

Lance keeps his posture loose and inviting. “Nah, I think I’ll stay and keep you company a bit.”

Keith’s mouth curves down into a frown. “It’s fine, I was thinking I’d enjoy the quiet tonight.”

“Alright, I’ll be quiet,” Lance says with a shrug, moving closer to Keith. “We’ll just stand here and think to ourselves.”

Keith’s frown deepens but he says nothing, turning back to the bridge and crossing his arms over it. Lance steps up beside him and dutifully remains quiet until he’s sure Keith can’t clench his jaw any tighter.

Lance decides to do them both a favor and stop pretending. “We’re friends, right? So why can’t you talk to me?”

Keith does him the honor of not pretending to not know what Lance is talking about. “It’s because we’re friends that I can’t talk to you.”

“Why?” Lance leans on one elbow so he is facing Keith. “Is it because you don’t want me to worry?”

“Yes!” Keith shouts, surprising them both. He forms his hands into fists, his pale skin becoming whiter with the tension. He breathes in then exhales slowly, speaking at a normal volume when he says, “There’s nothing to worry about.” His voice lowers even more as he mumbles, more to himself than to Lance as if it is something he tells himself often, “This is nothing compared to Allura.”

“What does Allura have to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Keith says, lightly kicking his leg back and forth into the railing, the motion siphoning off some of the tension held in his hands.

“No, not ‘nothing.’” Lance straightens from his slouched position. “Keith, what are you talking about?” He tries to sound serious and soft at the same time but isn’t sure how well he succeeds.

Well enough, considering Keith gives him an answer. He stops kicking the railing and turns to face Lance, doubt still in his eyes on whether he wants to talk or not, but his body is practically thrumming with the need to let the words escape.

“Sometimes I feel… empty, I guess. Or, overwhelmed? For no apparent reason. Everything can be going perfectly in my life, and then suddenly I feel awful and don’t want to hang out with friends or do my schoolwork or anything. And it’s so stupid because I have no reason to feel this way. My life is great: awesome friends, good grades, and I’m the top swimmer in the state.”

Keith chuckles but the sound quickly fades out. “It’s laughable, how everything is going well for me, yet I still feel like…”

Keith turns back towards the bridge, unwilling to hold eye contact. “I don’t want to kill myself. I don’t. But sometimes I come here and think, ‘What if? What if I jumped?’”

When seconds of silence pass and Lance is certain Keith is done, he asks, “Have you talked to anyone about this? Your friends or parents? A therapist?”

Keith scowls. “Hell no. They’d all do what you’re doing and look at me with concern. I don’t want that. I don’t _need_ it. Because there’s nothing wrong with me. Allura has actual, clinically-diagnosed depression that she needs pills for. I just have occasional emo mood swings that go away with time.”

“Keith…”

Keith grits his teeth and turns narrowed eyes on him. “What?”

Lance tries to hold Keith’s gaze, but occasionally those violet eyes skitter to the side of his head. “It’s not a contest, you know, for who’s in more pain. Sure, Allura has depression. But that doesn’t mean you can’t feel depressed too sometimes. And just because you don’t need to take medication doesn’t mean your feelings don’t deserve to be taken seriously. You’re allowed to talk to someone, ask for help if you need it.”

“What good would talking to someone do?” Keith says, immediately dismissing the idea. “If I talk to anyone, they’ll start treating me differently, watching me closely every time I’m tired or having an off-day, wondering if it’s something more than that and I’m going to break.”

“They wouldn’t necessarily—”

“Oh yeah?” Keith crosses his arms over his chest. “Then what were you doing earlier? Refusing to go home because I seemed ‘off’ to you, right? I just wanted to be alone for a few fucking minutes to ride this mood out, but you decided to hover. And now you know and you’re going to treat me differently and… _Fuck_.”

Keith runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath.

“Can we just drop it? Pretend tonight didn’t happen. And… and don’t tell anyone, Lance. I mean it.”

Lance steps closer. “If it’s serious, I have to tell _someone_ Keith. I’m your friend and—”

“No, you don’t! Don’t you dare tell anyone. This is _my_ life, okay? I decide what to do with it; you don’t get to make decisions for me. And if I ever did want to end it, that’s my choice too.”

“Well what about _me_?! What about me and Shiro and Allura and Pidge and your family and your teammates and everyone else who knows and cares about you, huh? You don’t care how we’ll be if you just decide one day you’re done and jump? Fuck you, Keith!”

Lance’s throat burns and he takes large gulps of cold air that do nothing to soothe it, feeling like fire on the way in. His screaming seems to have paralyzed Keith, whose eyes are wide like a deer in headlights.

“You know why I come here every night?” Lance doesn’t wait for an answer. “Because my brother killed himself by jumping off this bridge!” He points out over the railing, his arm trembling.

“And I had no fucking clue that he was even suicidal. None. He left no explanation for why—” Lance chokes and struggles to calm himself down. His hands are fisted into the fabric of his jacket above his heart. He can feel it pounding through the thick layer of his winter coat and the sweater he is wearing beneath.

“If I had only noticed, I could have done something. Made sure he got help, or had someone to talk to. So don’t tell me to sit by and watch you mope on this _fucking_ bridge, Keith.”

Lance pants, puffs of his breath visible in the cold air in front of him. Keith refuses to look at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stares at the trees over Lance’s shoulder.  
  
Minutes tick by and eventually Lance’s breathing returns to normal. When he’s calm, Keith spins on his heel and walks away.

Lance collapses onto the bridge, too tired to scream after him or cry or do anything other than listen to his breath fill his lungs and leave them.

  
***

  
Lance drops his backpack by the door and kicks off his shoes before dragging himself to the kitchen. He made the executive decision to skip swim practice again, which he’ll surely be yelled at by Pidge for, but he has a mild headache from getting too little sleep and he failed another one of Iverson’s quizzes this morning, also the result of too little sleep. He couldn’t focus for shit and now all he wants to do is take a nap before he has to head out again at 9 pm.

There is a basket of french fries in the fridge, leftovers from Hunk’s shift at the diner yesterday, and Lance doesn’t bother heating them up before popping them in his mouth.

He drinks a glass of water, soothing his headache the slightest bit, and checks the messages on his phone. Lance bypasses the text from his father asking when he wants to be picked up for winter break to instead respond to Hunk about their plans to go grocery shopping this weekend.

Lance sets his empty water glass in the sink and pads into his bedroom. He didn’t make his bed this morning, so the sheets are rolled back and ready for him to crawl under. Lance sets an alarm on his phone and places it on his nightstand.

He should read the next chapter for Iverson’s class so he doesn’t fall further behind or start the essay for his British Literature class, but he can’t find the motivation. Sleep is more important.

With his alarm set to wake him at 8 pm, Lance lets sleep overtake him.

  
***

  
Lance is surprised to see Keith at the bridge a mere two days after their spectacular fight. He planned on seeking Keith out eventually, wanting to unpack the emotions shared that night, but Keith beats him to it.

In the time Lance has had to mull over their argument, he has been able to see Keith’s viewpoint a bit better. That doesn’t mean Lance thinks his own viewpoint is wrong, but he is smart enough to realize there can be more than one correct answer.

Keith sits down beside him under the tree, knees tucked against his chest and head resting atop folded arms. Lance wordlessly passes him his thermos of coffee.

A light drizzle begins to fall gently from the sky, invisible unless Lance looks at a streak of moonlight to see the rain passing through it. His feet feel a little chilly inside his boots, but the temperature is on the warmer side of cold.

“I’m not sorry for the way I think, but I am sorry you lost someone close to you,” Keith finally utters, breaking the silence.

Lance scoots closer until his arm is pressed against Keith’s. Keith’s body heat warms him up.

“I’m sorry too, for yelling at you. But I’m not sorry for worrying about you. That’s what friends do.” Lance nudges Keith’s shoulder lightly with his own.

“I don’t want you to worry about me,” Keith says with a sigh.

Regardless of what Keith wants, Lance can’t turn off his feelings and Keith must know this. If Lance remembers correctly what Keith said that night, he is afraid he’ll be treated with kid gloves if he opens up about sometimes feeling depressed. Lance can’t turn his emotions off and stop caring, but he can do his best to show Keith that nothing has to change between them.

“I’ll do my best not to, but I can’t make myself stop caring about you, and worrying about you is part of that. I promise not to think of you differently, though, so don’t be afraid to talk to me, if you want.”

When Keith nods and says “Alright,” Lance believes he might actually take him up on the offer. Maybe Keith has been thinking about what Lance said that night too.

“Want to fast forward to when we no longer feel uncomfortable because of our fight and hang out like usual?”

Keith’s shoulders drop back, the tension in them breaking apart like a layer of ice that cracked and melted off with Lance’s words.

“Sure. Did you bring any snacks?”

Lance rustles through his backpack and tosses Keith a bag of gummy worms.

  
***

There are a few missed calls on Lance’s phone that he’ll have to explain to his ma as times he was in class or at swim practice. He’s been avoiding her calls for a week, certain they are about his plans for winter break.

Lance hasn’t formally told his ma he isn’t coming home, but he’s hinted that he might get a job in the area and stay at his apartment for most of break, only driving home for Christmas with his dad’s side of the family and Three Kings Day with his ma’s.

Lance misses his parents, he really does, and it would be nice to see his sister, who will be staying at the house for the holidays. But it’s one thing to sound put-together over the phone and another to be face-to-face with his family, upholding an act like he isn’t constantly gasping for air, trying to fill the hole in his chest.

As the youngest child, Lance has always been the energetic one, the funny one. The one always smiling and making his family smile too. Thanksgiving break was an exhausting nightmare, his smile so fake and wide it hurt as he traded jokes with his uncle, chased his little cousins around the living room, and did whatever else he could to fill the empty space his brother used to occupy. That was only a four day break from school. Lance can’t imagine spending three weeks at home.

He is sure he’ll get plenty more calls until he responds. Before Professor Montgomery’s class begins, Lance sends a text full of falsities about how he can’t come home for winter break because he got a job to save up for next semester’s textbooks. It's not a bad idea, honestly.

All he needs to do now is find a job.

  
***

  
Before Lance knows it, the week of final exams is two days away. It seemed like a far-off event with midterms ending only a few weeks ago, but the semester does tend to fly by even faster once midterms have finished.

From the many times Lance has come to Sal’s, he’s learned that rush hour on a Saturday begins at 2 pm and lasts until 10 pm. Armed with this knowledge, he tells Keith to meet him an hour and a half before rush hour starts so they can grab a table and spend the day here studying. The library is always packed around midterms and finals and though Sal’s isn’t quiet, it sells food, so Lance is proud of his study location idea. Keith isn’t properly appreciative of his clever idea, in Lance’s opinion, a frown on his face from the moment he walks through the chiming door. As Keith opens up about what is dragging his mood down, Lance forgives him instantly.

“You have a meet this weekend, right before finals?!”

Keith scowls into his milkshake. Mint brownie this week. “Yeah, and it’s away. We’re not getting back until late Sunday night, and then I have my first final exam at 9 am Monday morning.”

“Yes, when you said ‘am’ I made the connection that you were referring to the morning.”

Keith flicks his straw wrapper at Lance.

“I’m sorry, dude. That really sucks.”

“Division II doesn’t have a meet?”

“Nope,” Lance replies, popping the ‘p.’ “We had practice on Friday like usual and then nothing until after finals week is over.”

Keith pouts with a straw between his lips.

“Cheer up. You’re still coming to the party, right?”

“Oh.” Keith’s eyes widen slightly, and his pout disappears. “Yeah, I am. I need something to look forward to after the shitstorm these finals are going to be. I told you about the group project I have to do with that guy Lotor, right?”

Lance shakes his head. Keith leans back in his seat, releasing a dramatic, heavy sigh.

“God, he’s such a pretentious shit. And I have no idea why he’s a Sociology major; he’s always playing Devil’s advocate and saying stuff like,” Keith imitates a posh accent, “‘If women didn’t want us to whistle at them and compliment their bodies, why do they wear revealing clothing?’ Like, what? I’m telling you, I think I’d rather take an F than work with this asshole.”

Lance laughs at Keith’s impression. “Sounds like a real douchenozzle. Good luck with that.”

Keith groans and drops his head to the table. “I want this week to be over already.”

  
***

  
Before Lance knows it, finals week is over and he is trading his money for pizza with the guy whose name he’s forgotten but knows is in his African American Literature class. When he turns around, Pidge swipes the pizza boxes from his hands and carries them into the living room, brushing notebooks and game consoles off of the coffee table to make room. Lance intended to eat around the kitchen table but knows it’s far too late to start caring about eating on the couch now.

Their couch has two cushions, already claimed by Hunk and Pidge, leaving Keith, Matt, and Lance to sit on pillows on the ground. The living room floor is covered in fluffy beige carpeting, its hideousness only redeemed by the plushness it provides on nights like tonight when Hunk and him are entertaining.

Lance is glad everyone could get together tonight. They all were in desperate need of a break. Final exams ended yesterday, followed by a meet today for the Division I swim team. Keith looks worse for wear because of the dual stress from academics and swimming, but after a few rounds of _Just Dance_ , pulverizing Matt and Hunk and trading victories with Pidge and Lance, the tension begins to drain out of his body.

“Meat lovers or veggie slice, Keith?” Lance asks when Keith makes no move to grab a slice of pizza himself. He looks away from his ringing cell phone at the call of his name, gives Lance an apologetic glance and a finger meaning ‘hold on,’ and stands up, answering the call.

“What’s up?” Lance hears him ask the person on the other line, walking to the kitchen to get away from the noise of Matt and Pidge arguing over whether veggie or meat pizza toppings would be a better choice to send someone in the Hunger Games.

Keith runs a hand through his hair and grips himself on the nape of his neck. The person on the other line would never imagine the tired lines on his face or exhausted slump to his shoulders, only able to hear his voice which sounds like the ocean waves at twilight, soft white noise lulling the listener into a state of calm.

“Of course I’ll come. No, I wasn’t doing anything. Yeah, see you soon.”

As soon as Keith ends the call, Lance says, “You’re leaving?”

Keith's eyes convey apology and guilt. “Yeah, sorry. Something came up.”

“Was it Allura?” Lance tries to hide the bite in his voice but probably fails. All of a sudden, he feels frustrated and can’t explain why.

Keith doesn’t meet his gaze, replying, “Yeah. Thanks for inviting me. I’ll… talk to you later.”

Keith says quick goodbyes to everyone in the living room, slides into his high-top red Vans, and exits the apartment without another glance in Lance’s direction.

Lance needs a moment to trample the upset feelings stirring inside him, so he excuses himself to his room for a few minutes, sitting heavily upon his bed and dropping his head into his hands.

After a few minutes of reflection, Lance realizes why he is upset. Keith needed a break tonight to brush off the stress of the past week. Instead, he gave that up to be Allura’s support. Lance hates that Keith feels like his mental health isn’t as important as Allura’s, having to take a back seat when his friend needs him.

Lance wants Allura to be okay and have support. He definitely does. But he doesn’t want Keith setting his own health aside to make it happen.

  
***

  
The weekend passes quickly after the party; too soon it is Sunday night blending into the darkest hours of Monday morning.

The nights have become unbearably cold. Lance’s fingers burn inside his coat pockets. He didn’t think he would need gloves, but that was a mistake; his hands hurt so badly he almost wishes he’d get hypothermia so they would become numb.

The first thing Lance does when he finally enters his apartment, after two minutes of struggling to hold the key steady and fit it inside the lock, is run his hands under warm water. That burns too, but gradually the biting pain caused by the cold fades. Exhausted and cold, Lance only bothers to kick off his sneakers and shrug off his jacket before falling onto his bed and wrapping himself in his blankets.

It feels like ten minutes later when Hunk shakes him awake.

“Lance, you should get up soon. You said you’d apply to jobs today.”

Lance groans and pulls his blankets over his head. He knows Hunk is right, but what harm is another five minutes?

“Five minutes will turn into two hours if you don’t set an alarm,” Hunk warns, knowing him too well.

Lance groans again as he is forced to extend his arm out from the warmth of his blankets and into the chilly air. He swats the air, searching for his cell phone with no luck. Lance pulls the covers down from over his head and looks at his nightstand, realizing that his hand never found his phone because he forgot to take it out of his jacket pocket. His jacket lays on the floor a foot away from his bed where he discarded it last night.

Lance blearily stumbles over to his jacket and lifts it up with one hand, using his other hand to search the side pockets until he finds his phone. Once he does, Lance sighs to himself. Now that he is already awake and out from under his covers, he might as well get ready for the day.

A green light blinks in the top left corner of his screen, informing him that he has a message. Lance swipes his screen to unlock it, expecting to see a text message waiting to be viewed, but instead there is a small number one above the ‘Call’ icon. It’s rare that he gets a voicemail, rare enough that listening to it takes precedence over getting in the shower.

The first few seconds of the voicemail are silent. Lance moves his phone away to see if the message is still playing, only to press it back against his ear quickly upon hearing Keith’s voice.

_"Uh, hey, Lance."_

Lance has to strain to hear Keith. He must be outside; Lance can hear crackling made by the wind.

Keith sniffles, presumably from the cold. _"I know it’s late. It’s, uh…”_ Keith’s voice grows farther away. Lance imagines him pulling his phone away from his face to read the time. _"It’s almost 3 am. I know you’re not at the bridge this late—"_

Lance’s stomach drops. That’s how the feeling is described, but to him it more accurately seems like his insides have mysteriously disintegrated for how empty he feels.

“No no no,” Lance mutters, pressing the phone harder against his ear to hear Keith and praying this isn’t _that_ call. The last call.

 _"—you’re probably sleeping by now. I just thought… well, on the off-chance you were awake, I thought I’d call to see if you could talk."_  Lance listens as Keith sniffles again. " _Anyway, if you get this, could you call me?"_

The message plays for another few seconds, a few seconds that Lance imagines Keith contemplating what else to say before giving up and ending the call. Lance stands in his bedroom, his phone still clutched tightly in his hand, pressed against his ear with Keith’s words running through his head, blocking out the voicemail woman’s voice telling him to press seven to delete this message, press nine to save it, yadda yadda.

Lance clutches his chest, scrunching up the fabric of his t-shirt. He no longer feels empty; his heart is pounding ferociously against the ribs caging it in, and blood is pulsing through his ears, making everything sound like he’s underwater.

A strong grip on his shoulder rocks him, and with every shake his hearing returns to normal. Though his heart still feels like it is trying to escape, he can focus on his surroundings. Hunk softens his grip and ducks his head slightly to meet Lance’s gaze.

“Lance? Are you okay?”

Lance begins to nod his head but stops, hit with the realization that he is wasting time. It’s too late, almost five hours past the time Keith called him and Lance didn’t hear his phone ring, already having fallen into a dreamless doze. Keith had been at the bridge and Lance wasn’t there and now it’s five hours later but Lance needs to go there, he needs to see if Keith’s there, he needs—

“Lance, what’s—”

Lance pushes out of Hunk’s careful hold, tripping out of the apartment as he tries to slip his feet into his sneakers and hurry to the park. Hunk’s shouts of concern fade into the distance, spurring him on. The quieter Hunk’s shouting becomes, the further away from his apartment he is and the closer he is to Keith.

The ground is slippery because of the fallen leaves and Lance almost falls, but he doesn’t slow down until the bridge comes into view.

Keith isn’t there. Of course he isn’t, he called five hours ago. Lance feels bile rise in his throat but swallows it down, advancing slowly to the railing. Taking in a shaky breath, he holds it and looks over one side of the bridge, scanning the rocks below.

No sign of Keith.

Lance crosses to the other side of the bridge and peers down again. Still no body broken on the rocks.

Lance exhales and drops to his knees. Overwhelmed, he starts to bawl. He lets the fear and the relief pour out of him until he is wrung dry. He should stand up soon. He should return to the apartment and let Hunk know he is okay, then shower and head downtown to see if anywhere is hiring seasonal staff. He should, but he’s so tired. So monumentally tired, he wishes the world would freeze around him and he could sleep for a week. He wishes he were anywhere else but this despicable bridge and at the same time wishes he could stay here, in this quiet pathway on the edge of the park, and hibernate under the awning of his tree, not waking up until the world is bearable again.

When his tear ducts are empty and his breathing is normal, Lance shakily stands up and checks his phone.

He has three missed calls and three new voicemails. Checking the call history, Lance sees that the first call was from Hunk, followed by Pidge five minutes later. The last call was three minutes ago, from Keith.

Lance presses his index finger on the contact name to return the missed call. It rings once before the other line picks up.

_“Lance?! What’s going on? Hunk called Pidge and said something was wrong but he didn’t know what, and then we all tried calling you but you didn’t pick up, and we’re all freaking out, man. Is everything okay?”_

Hearing Keith who is frantic on his behalf, a complete parallel to how Lance felt minutes ago when he rushed to the bridge, is suddenly amusing. His emotions have been flayed and he has no control, control is an illusion, so he let’s go and releases a belly laugh, doubling over with one arm wrapped around his waist and the other still holding the phone, though it slips down away from his ear and now rests beside his chin.

 _“Lance?”_ Keith says, receiving more laughter. _“What the fuck,”_ Lance can hear Keith mumble irritably.

He sobers himself, not wanting to be caught by a morning jogger and labeled as the basket-case on the bridge. Yeah, that thought sobers him up quickly.

 _“Lance, where are you? I’ll come and meet you,”_ he hears Keith say. Lance raises the phone back to his ear.

“Keith.” Lance releases a shaky breath. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

_“What? Why wouldn’t I be o—… Fuck, are you at the bridge? Lance, I’m fine, I just wanted… **Shit**. I’m on my way. Do you want me to stay on the line? I’m staying on the line. I’ll be there in less than ten.”_

Lance can hear Pidge in the background, asking questions that Keith ignores, assuring her that everything is fine and he’ll talk to her later. 

_“You still there, Lance?”_

“I’m not going anywhere, Keith. Relax.” Lance re-situates himself, leaning his back against the wooden beams of the bridge, and listens to Keith’s panting as he runs.

_“I’m almost there. Crossing the baseball field now.”_

Lance leans forward and peers down the trail leading out of the forest, to the baseball field. He spots a pint-sized person whose limbs grow longer with every step, their features becoming less blurry, shifting into a familiar head of dark hair, broad shoulders, and narrow waist.

Keith stops at the edge of the bridge, toes tempting the border where dirt becomes wood but not crossing over.

Lance slowly rises to his feet and waits for Keith to catch his breath.

“I got your message,” Lance says by way of explanation for why they are here on the first day of winter break.

Keith’s hands clench into fists at his sides, and Lance can tell he’s doing his damnedest not to yell and spark another fight. Lance appreciates it, but he needs to know what is running through Keith’s head, needs to know where Keith is mentally. He’ll accept all of Keith’s anger if he never has to witness his apathy.

“It’s okay, Keith. Tell me what you’re thinking,” Lance says, proud at how calm he can be for Keith when he was falling apart twenty minutes before.

Keith’s fists clench tighter, but it’s not enough. His feelings are too strong to bury inside. Lance sees this and waits for the inevitable release; inevitable because no one can hold everything inside forever.

When it comes, it comes as a series of kicks against the corner post of the bridge. The wooden post is thick enough that the force dissipates against it, the only damage being to Keith’s toes. Marginally calmer, Keith releases a heavy sigh and wraps his arms around himself.

“I’m sorry I made you worry. I shouldn’t have called. I just wanted someone to… Ugh, forget it, it’s not important. Are you okay?”

Lance frowns and steps closer to Keith. “Let’s worry about you for right now. First off, you have nothing to apologize for. Keith, I wanted you to talk to me if you ever needed to. I told you that.”

Keith narrows his eyes. “What the fuck does it matter if I needed to talk if it caused you to freak out? I wasn’t even gonna… I just wanted to see if you were around to talk, but now that you think I’m suicidal or depressed or whatever the fuck you think, you jump to the worst-case scenario.”

Keith rakes a hand through his hair and closes his eyes, breathing in deep. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything to anyone about how I was feeling.”

Lance’s eyes soften with sadness. “Keith,” he says, waiting for the dark-haired male to open his eyes and look at him so he is sure his words are being heard. “You can’t bottle up your feelings because you’re worried about how others will react. Let that be on them, okay? It’s my fault for thinking the worst and freaking out, not yours. I’m glad you called me; I just wish I had been awake so I could have been there for you.”

Keith’s disbelieving eyes pin Lance in place and he chuckles darkly. “It’s not on me, it’s on them? Do you hear yourself, Lance?” Keith steps forward, onto the bridge. “How do you expect me to believe it’s not my fault when you’re the poster-child for fucked-up because of someone else’s actions?”

Lance inhales sharply, but Keith doesn’t relent.

“You didn’t notice, and that must suck, but you’re not responsible for your brother’s death. He killed himself and that’s on him, not on you. You can’t keep blaming yourself, Lance, keeping watch over this bridge every night because you feel responsible.”

Keith takes a breath before continuing, slower this time. “It’s a nice idea to be here to help someone, but you have your own health to think of. You’re always tired, and it’s hurting your grades.”

Lance’s jaw drops open slightly, baffled to hear his own thoughts regarding Keith spoken back at him.

“Then what about you?”

“What?” Keith’s brows furrow in confusion.

“You need to take care of your own health too.”

“I do take—”

“No,” Lance interrupts. “You left the party on Friday.”

“Because Allura needed me,” Keith says as if he’s explaining something to a child.

“And you needed a night for yourself,” Lance argues. “Don’t give me that bullcrap that Allura’s needs are more important than your own because it’s not true.”

Keith’s mouth opens, but no excuse comes out as he visibly reflects on Lance’s words.

Lance releases an airy chuckle. “God, we’re both hypocritical idiots, aren’t we?”

That makes Keith release a chuckle as well, as he lowers himself to sit on the bridge. “Yeah, I guess we are. It’s a lot easier to push aside your own issues and care for someone else instead, huh?”

Lance sits beside the man he met on this bridge over a month ago, the one he thought he could help to make up for the man he couldn’t, and agrees.

Keith scoots closer until they are hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. “You should call Hunk and Pidge.”

“Yeah.”

Lance presses the home button on his phone to light up the screen then touches the phone icon. He looks at his speed dial options before pressing the number one.

“Ma? Hey. I’ve changed my mind. Can dad pick me up? I want to come home.”

He can feel Keith’s eyes on him.

“Yeah, everything’s… Actually, no. Everything’s not alright.” Lance’s breath hitches, and he feels warm fingers wrap around his hand and squeeze.

“But I’ll be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> This took about half a year to finish and was probably the most challenging fic I’ve written so far. I knew what I wanted to express but I had trouble managing to do so. I thought about quitting a few times, because if my writing ability wasn’t strong enough to do this story justice, then it would be better if it got buried in my drafts folder. Now that it’s done and I’ve read through it all again, it’s not the hot mess I feared it was, but maybe that’s me being hopeful. Either way, writing this story was a journey and I’m glad I pushed myself to finish it. I hope it impacted you in some way.
> 
> I’m not above begging, so please if you could take a minute of your time to leave a comment, I’d appreciate it more than you can know. I’m the type of writer who needs constant validation. Also know that if I don’t respond to your comment, it’s definitely not because I don’t care; it usually takes me twenty minutes to respond to a single comment because I’m an anxious wreck so going forward I’ll probably just save myself the stress and not.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to take care of yourself!


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